


Fast Friend Fresca and a Semi-casual Cameron

by Catatonic



Series: “I’m for women’s rights and I’m Ferris Bueller’s cousin.” [2]
Category: Ferris Bueller's Day Off (1986)
Genre: 80s, Brotp, Chicago, Friendship, Gen, Original Character(s), Shopping, Spring Cleaning, The Billy Goat Tavern, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-14 09:39:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1261612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catatonic/pseuds/Catatonic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ferris is stuck in the house; Cameron goes on a well needed shopping trip and inadvertently meets his best friend's cousin for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fast Friend Fresca and a Semi-casual Cameron

Ferris, telephone in one hand, a Cubs ice-cream helmet in the other, eased into the steed’s head seat, mindful of the recently Stanley-steamed carpeting. Having a real estate broker in the house meant a tidy house.  A tight ship, for Ferris.

He Licked his fingers clean as he waited for the dial tone.

“Hey, Cam. What’s up?”

“Not my mood, for sure.”

“Your satire knows no bounds, Cameron.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be funny.”

Ferris mocking his words on the other side of the line.

“Have you seen ‘Aliens’?”

“When the creature was in that guy’s stomach?”

“Unuh. When the creature _s_ were in that guy’s stomach.”

“Oh. No, I haven’t.” He paused. “Hey, wait.” Cameron took the phone from his ear a moment and covered the receiver.

“Is this another sick day? You usually let me on on these things? Have you finally come to appreciate my true value as your friend and realized that putting up with stupid crap should be illicit to our affiliation.”

“Cameron, buddy. I wanted to know if you’d like to come over; watch a movie.”

“Are you sick?”

“No!” laughed Ferris. “I’m not sick.  I am sick of present conversation however.”

“To be brutally honest, Ferris -- no.”

“Ah, Cam, you’re killin’ me! I can’t just help Mom dust all day.”

“I told myself I’d go clothes shopping – ”

“You? Shopping?” Ferris cracked up. “Your mood must not be as down as you say, Cameron. You haven’t stepped in the men’s department since…well, since before you could wear from the men’s department!” He took a swallow of his ice-cream. It was warm.

“Last week Mother took it upon herself to throw out a whole bunch of my old stuff.  “But that’s not why I’m going,” he added swiftly.

"Boy. This spring cleaning’s got the worst of everybody, huh? And Howe?"

"She probably would have, had I not been wearing it then."

"If you come on over here I’ll let you raid my closet."

"I can’t tell if a thing looks good on me.”

"Do I select anything that is not entirely choice?”

“Your fashion sense is not the point, Ferris.”

“My shirts are all arranged by palette,” he cajoled

"They’d all look like crop tops on me. Besides, I never know what colours match my skin tone.”

“White?” snickered Ferris.

“You know, I forgot to laugh, Ferris! And not because it was funny either.”

“My friend the coal mine.”  Ferris carried the telephone with him as he went to the door and slid the draft animal underneath of it.  He could barely make out Cameron's mumbling over the hum of Kate's unremitting vacuum.  Mrs. Bueller succumbed easily under the spell of new appliances.

“Ferris Bueller. Someday’s there’s, there’s,” he stuttered, “there is no getting through to you. You’re impossible!”

“I’m not impossible – I’m right here.” Ice-cream dribbled down Ferris’ chin; through amicable derisions he tried to keep his snorting to a minimum, control. “I am incorrigible.”

“I think I hear Kate calling.”

“Nah. Jeanie’s just yapping about the dog.”

“That was sarcasm, Bueller. I really need to get going.”

“Gosh, can’t believe I’m gonna miss this.”

“Are you quite finished? Goodbye, Ferris.”

“Wait, Cam! One more thing.”

“This had better be an apology.”

Ferris’ teeth were clenched, lips pulled to a tight grin, trying not to let on to an obvious wisecrack.

_“_ _Morris & Sons_ has a new coup – ”

Click.

***

Cameron stood inside the revolving doors. He went around a few times, re-thinking this excursion. He went in, in spite of himself. He was absolutely overwhelmed.

_Where should I start? Who do I talk to? How much money did I bring? Where is my wallet – now that I mention it? Cash or credit?_

His pupils contracted at the over generous florescent lighting and his caddy hat suddenly felt very tight.

Polished hangers gleamed – golden – and the scattered attendants looked rather like alien colonies. Someone was actually more tense than he, he thought. Cameron had not been in a department store for some years. One Christmas Eve sale (not quite a year ago) with his mother incessantly telling him to ‘put that thing down’ may have strayed from present counting, simply forgotten – but since he stayed in the car for the most part, it didn’t quite make the cut anyhow.

The music, instrumental, over the speakers felt foreboding, ominous. Why couldn’t it have been something by Petula Clark or Dr. Hook (like when he was a kid). Donna Summers. Elton John. Steely Dan. An instance resurfaced: The snot-nosed boy next to him, pointing to the stuffed giraffe on the shelf, saying the makers used Cameron as a reference while The Captain and Tennille taunted with “Shop Around”

Maybe not; the cloud of abstraction burst.  Cam was happy to be stuck with Huey Lewis.

He looked down at his sweater-vest (One of Ferris’ actually. That Cheshire Cat had convinced him, at last, to at least borrow for this afternoon occasion). Something more formal. He tugged at his tie (also one of Ferris’) and felt something more casual needed to be done. He perused the directory board; he was hesitant to call on any one of the emerald green sales associates.  Another flash of childhood: A witch and a city turned to stone.

“Clearance” jumped out at him; Cameron proceeded down the faux velvet pathway (which ran throughout the shoppes) with renewed vigor and one end of a game-plan, to the **Discontinued** corner of the store. A lozenge shape crystal glass window, placed at a notable and very precise alignment antithetical to the the jewelery counters, painted the whole place looking especially elegant as Cam passed through the in/out eave and onto B division. This second half of the first floor seemed dimmer. Not so spectacular as A division. Some of the aisles were less organized than the Central CPD lost-and-foundry. Little to no attendants were on hand, fans blowing multi-coloured strips in each corner, and the fitting rooms had curtains -- versus tight shutting doors, high gloss swoosh handles, marble benches.  White, cracked-paint, wooden benches. Hangers on the ground.

Over the course of minutes. . .and hours, shuffling through shelves, bombarding bins, and digging through drawers, Cameron had amassed a commendable pile -- for Cameron -- of three of four items to each type.  A hopeless case.  There was a purple vase in the undergarments.  The colour had drained from his face and right now he was wishing he was at home. Sick, in bed. Curtains drawn.

Cameron Frye switching shirts at the mirror. Turning around, checking if the blue hat somehow had made his backside look bigger. Back to switching shirts.

 ***

“You look like you could use a second o-pinion, my friend.”

Cameron was glad to hear something other than the fans.

 “I could,” said Cameron. “I could use a first opinion. I can’t decide on any one thing.”

“Gauche – They’ll all have to go," coughed the stranger.  “I know the fashions rather well. . .though I may choose not to abide by them myself,” he chuckled.

Pink shorts paired with Pierre Cardin's toe design wasn’t featured in any magazine.  Not yet.

The two of them got to general talking, conversation; they hit it off quite well.  Cameron was glad to get his mind off choices. 

 ***

The front of the building had a clock tower motif. Outside the hour hand struck again.

“Cherry. That vest you are wearing now, is,” he searched for the right word, “sensational!”  "And the tie – Very nice. Do you dress like this everyday?  If time is what this takes, my friend, then I don’t see why you are complaining!”

“I must confess it is my friend’s vest I’m wearing.”

“Than I must compliment your friend.”

“The tie, too.”

“No matter,” he blinked.  “How ‘bout that green pullover?” It was shoved in the corner of a fitting room, amongst another shoppers' "not this".

Cam raised an eyebrow at the forward fellow.  Cam was desperate to get out of the shoppes so he opted to listen to him.

“This one?” asked Cam, pulling it out from underneath; a stack of heavy threaded slacks.

“Indeed.” said the stranger.  He pushed up his wrap-around shades, lifting his hair. He slapped his forehead. Sun-burnt forehead. “Name’s Fresca – Joel Fresca.” He worked a tiny cannister out of his pocket, applied some Blistex, DCT, to his lip and stuck out his hand in greetings.

“I’m Cameron – Frye.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Frye.” Joel smeared some of the DCT on his cheek bones. “Green’s your colour, my friend. I could tell just by looking.” He placed the tin back in his pocket.

“Peace. Work. Fatherland,” Joel said, devoid.

“What?”

“That’s the motto, is it not?”

“What?”

“Cameroon. That’s the motto; correct me if I’m wrong.”

“Yes,” he answered hesitantly, but isn’t that a little aside of second opinions?” Cam laughed awkwardly.

“Now you have me confused, during this clothing conundrum, Mr. Cameroon. You are a forgetful fellow, pardon my saying. Sorry, uh, it’s just that it’s not everyday you meet a man named after an African country.”

“Cameron. Cam-er-on,” he enunciated. “My name is Cameron.”

Joel chuckled sheepishly. “ ‘Tis by a trifle this uproar caused.”

“I-I didn’t mean to sound cross,” Cameron blushed.

“My hearing’s not what it used to be,” Joel joked.

“Don’t worry about it,” simpered Cameron.

Cam held up the pullover in the mirror. “Huh. It is nice,” he smiled. “But does it complement _these_ pants?” He handed Joel a pair of full-break, suede, navy trousers.

“They will – ”

“You mean they don’t,” he frowned.

“Ah. Do not fret, Cam. They shall, will, if you but join them with a sport coat and some English blazer – the fragrance – not a jacket.”

“Oh.” Cameron didn’t know anything about dress.

***

 Cameron went through the entire store again, now under Mr. Fresca's freely given enlightenment.  Except advice, there wasn't much Fresca did give away for free.

Joel had informed Cameron that he would be staying in Chicago for a couple of weeks.  To this Cameron grinned.  He liked this Fresca character.  His last name made him thirsty but he liked his carefree attitude and his certainty. Fresca carefree was different than Ferris carefree.  Cam also liked Joel's disgustingly excessive car.  Not too much, mind you. Cameron never got too attached to a material item -- especially cars. 

Cam placed his boxes and bags in the back seat of the Royce while Joel quipped that in three days he had learned more on Chicago than the so-called native tour guides.  He told Cameron how he had rubbed elbows with a score of them, asked a lot of questions and received few answers.  Fresca offered Cam to take his ride for a spin.  Free tour guide; no bribes required. It'll be two happy people, he thought.  Joel suggested he and 'Cameroon' go grab a drink and a bite to eat afterwards.  Cameron sniggered at Joel's cluster-fuck of accents.  Joel wasn't even aware he was doing any.  Wintergreen. Spearmint. Joel placed a couple of Altoids mints in Cam's palm after he sat down from adjusting the driver's seat -- Joel pulled up to the wheel real close in that eye burning Royce.  Cameron has those long femurs.

Paralleling into the Billy Goat Tavern, eyeing Cameron's lent tie.  Billy Goat was Cameron's suggestion.

"You play pool, big boy?" asked Fresca.

Cameron waggled his neck as to say "Sometimes; not really. And I'm horrible.  I hate the smell of the felt."

"I've never snookered a Chicagoan."  Joel howled at the double entandre and clapped Cameron on the lower nape.

Cam hung his caddy on the rack and loosened his tie a bit. He went to the men's room and Joel sat down at the bar. 

No bills over twenty and no folks under twenty-one.  Joel knew he was eighteen.  Nobody else did.

The bar tender released a surreptitious belch as he dried out the glasses and took the order.

"No Coke. Pepsi," winked Fresca.

The bar tender shook his head.  He heard that line a couple hundred times a week.

"Fright Night in the Grove, and a bottle of that Mexican Fresca there." said Joel.

"Be in a buzz, Jack."  The barman slung the oily rag over his shoulder.

Cameron emerged from the stalls with a wet tie. Ferris' tie.

Overlapping the lower teeth by the upper, Cam gestured that Joel move away from the bar.  He knew Joel was eighteen and he knew himself seventeen.

The bar tender turned his hazel eye to Cameron.  The man was Heterochromatic.

"What'll ya' have, tail-pipe?" The bar tender said this rather like tey-all pip. He was an Aussie.  He snuck another belch.

"No strong stuff." Joel interposed. "Beach Blanket Bingo for my friend here."  He took a shot of his own (alcoholic) drink.  "And bring it over to the table would ya, mate?" Joel added in that perfectly amicable outback twang.

The boys split a double-chili "cheesboiger" and a basket of chips.  Cam talked about the supposed curse on the Cubs and that it was seemingly true.  He thought about the game Ferris treated him to six weeks ago.  He thought about "Abe Froman" and his mind drifted back to Fresca.  He could see how Joel might get a kick out of such inductions.

"Reminds me of my cousin," Joel spoke absently, eyeing Cameron's lent threads.

"If your cousin is Ferris Bueller," Cam laughed under his breath.  Cameron picked the last fry from the basket.

Joel was reading the banner flashing across the news channel.


End file.
